Budapest, Hungary
March 1944
In the weeks before my parents sent me away, I heard them arguing. Few words penetrated the wood between the second and third floors of our house in Budapest, but their tones seeped upward to invade the tiny bedroom I shared with Miklos and brought with them a palpable tension that twisted my stomach into knots. A discernible phrase occasionally echoed up the steep wooden stairway. I wanted to cover my ears to hide from the terror of their disagreement as I lay huddled on the corner of my thin mattress. Most of the words made no sense. What does a 4-year-old girl know of government and politics? Names like Sztójay and Lakatos meant nothing, though I shivered at the fear that saturated my mother’s ragged whispers.
By Virginia Smith Logan | Stanford